The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(29)

“For what purpose?”

“So that your testimony at the inevitable public inquiry into the attacks doesn’t reflect the true nature of your two conversations with Graham Seymour.”

“Seymour’s covering his ass?”

“He’s entered the final lap of a long and distinguished career. He can almost see his country house and his knighthood and comfortable seat on the board of a respectable financial house in the City. He doesn’t want some gunslinging Israeli to trip him up as he nears the finish line.”

“The last thing I’m going to do is fall on my sword to protect Graham Seymour’s reputation and retirement.”

“No, but you’re not going to go out of your way to embarrass him either. We’ll need to concoct some subtle variation on the truth that protects both your reputation and his.” Shamron smiled; concocting subtle variations on the truth was one of his favorite pastimes. “Burning Graham Seymour serves no useful purpose. You’re going to need him, and his friends, in your next life.”

“And what life is that?”

Shamron scrutinized Gabriel through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Being deliberately obtuse serves no useful purpose either, Gabriel. You know very well what we have in store for you. The time has come for you to lead. The keys to the throne room are within your grasp.”

“Perhaps, Ari, but there’s only one problem. I don’t want them. I have other things I want to do with the rest of my life.”

“I’m afraid it’s time for you to put away childish things.”

“You’re referring to restoration?”

“I am.”

“You didn’t consider it a childish thing when you were using it as cover to conceal an assassin.”

“Restoration served both our needs for a long time,” Shamron said, “but its season has faded.”

They passed the charred hulk of an armored personnel carrier, a remnant of the fierce fighting that took place in the Bab al-Wad during Israel’s War of Independence.

“I’ve been in the Cabinet Room in times of crisis,” Gabriel said. “I’ve seen our leaders tear each other to shreds. It’s not the way I want to spend the next ten years. Besides, when all those former generals look at me, they’re just going to see a boy with a gun.”

“You’re not a boy any longer. You are approaching the age when men in government reach the summit of their careers. You’ll just reach yours a little sooner than most. You were always a bit of a wunderkind.”

Gabriel held up the copy of Haaretz. “And what about this?”

“The scandals?” Shamron shrugged. “A career free of scandal is not a proper career at all. For the most part, your scandals have earned you valuable allies in Washington and the Vatican.”

“They’ve earned me enemies, too.”

“They would be your enemies regardless of your actions. And they’ll be your enemies long after your body is placed next to Dani’s on the Mount of Olives.” Shamron crushed out his cigarette. “Don’t worry, Gabriel, this is not something that’s going to happen overnight. Amos’s death will be a slow one, and only a handful of people will even know the patient is terminal.”

“How long?”

“A year,” Shamron said. “Perhaps eighteen months at the most. Plenty of time for you to repair a few more paintings for your friend in Rome.”

“There’s no way you’ll be able to keep it a secret for a year, Ari. You always said that the worst place to try to keep a secret is inside an intelligence service.”

“At the moment only three people are privy to it—you, me, and the prime minister.”

“And Uzi.”

“I needed to bring Uzi into the picture,” Shamron said. “Uzi serves as my eyes inside the Office.”

“Maybe that’s why you want me there.”

Shamron smiled. “No, Gabriel, I want you there so I can close my eyes.”

“You’re not thinking of dying, are you, Ari?”

“I’d just like to take a short nap.”

Gabriel turned and peered out the rear window of the limousine. The chase car was following closely behind them. He looked at Shamron and asked whether there had been any news from London about Elizabeth Halton.

“Still nothing from her captors,” Shamron said. “And nothing from the British, at least nothing they’re willing to say in public. But it is possible that we might be coming into some useful intelligence.”

“From where?”

“Egypt,” said Shamron. “Our most important asset inside the SSI sent us a signal early this morning that he had something for us.”

The full name of the SSI was the General Directorate of State Security Investigations, a polite way of saying the Egyptian secret police.

“Who is he?” Gabriel asked.

“Wazir al-Zayyat, chief of the Department for Combatting Religious Activity. Wazir has one of the toughest jobs in the Middle East: making certain Egypt’s homegrown Islamic extremists don’t bring down the regime. Egypt is the spiritual heartland of Islamic fundamentalism, and of course the Egyptian Islamists are a major component of al-Qaeda. Wazir knows more about the state of the global jihadist movement than anyone in the world. He keeps us apprised of the stability of the Mubarak regime and passes along any intelligence that suggests Egyptian terrorists are targeting us.”